Nevermore
by Vanillasiren
Summary: When had that little shrew wormed her way into his thoughts so thoroughly? Raven reflects. One-shot.


Nevermore

Summary: When had that little shrew wormed her way so thoroughly into his thoughts? Raven reflects. One-shot.

Author's Note: Yeah, I really can't stop writing about Oberon's Children. Oh well. And once again, you probably won't get this if you haven't read my "Siren Song" story.

So they were actually … in love?

How sweet.

How touching.

How disgusting.

How could it _possibly_ be so?

For Puck, amongst all of them, to actually succumb to such foolish sentiment? Puck, who thought love was the most amusing of ailments a mortal could ever suffer from, who laughed at their lamentations over it? Puck, who mocked romance as a matter of course, even among his own kind? After all this time, for him to actually have fallen into that trap himself?

And with … her.

That little shrew.

Though to be perfectly honest, that part wasn't entirely surprising. Over the centuries, Puck had spent more time with the Banshee than any other member of his own race, his fellow tricksters included. He recalled when the two of them had returned to Avalon, how close they had seemed, even then. The Puck and the Banshee had been summoned together – they all were, which was highly unusual. As it turned out, Lord Oberon's reason for bringing everyone there at the same time had been to announce the banishment decree.

He could still remember how oddly tender Puck had been with the Banshee, his arm around her as she leaned against him, in tears. Something had twisted in his stomach at the sight of them, curled up so close like that, as he comforted her. He was suddenly angry, though he didn't know why.

So naturally he had to mock her, however ineffectually, though he doubted she'd noticed it at the time. For his part, _he_ had certainly noticed how quickly Puck had risen to her defense.

Of course, then his cousin Grandmother had started lecturing him on Oberon's Law, as though he wasn't fully aware of it, and by the time he was through ignoring her, the boat containing the two had disappeared into the mists.

What did Puck see in her anyway?

Well, as far as looks went, he guessed he could understand that part. At least, when she was in her regular from, not that bizarre death-worm shape she sometimes took on. But he supposed normally, she was rather attractive … you know, if you went for that ghostly sort of style.

And the way she moved was very … sensual. It was like a dance, somehow, but without the pretension that would seem to imply. She had a grace which eluded even Phoebe. And there was that dark current underneath, that association with dying, which he thought could be strangely … alluring.

Not that he considered such things very often, of course.

And then there was that voice. Such power in that voice. That voice could not only make men die, it could melt them, could make them putty in her hands, mold them to her will. An enviable weapon, that. And one he'd only ever heard her wield it in anger.

But Puck … Puck must know a different side to that voice of hers, he thought. What it must be like, to get to hear her cry out, not in rage, but in pure, helpless pleasure …

He needed to stop thinking about this.

But the thoughts continued unbidden, the thoughts he couldn't banish from his mind.

He'd understand her better. Better than Puck ever could.

He knew what it was like to hate mortals. He knew what it was like to get attached to an island in the mortal world, simply because it seemed a little like Avalon. He knew what it was like to be driven from that second home by a stupid little human intent on playing hero. He knew about being bitter and alone and not being able to admit that all you really wanted was someone who could understand how you felt.

Never mind what Puck saw in her, what did _she_ see in him? He couldn't believe she'd actually been reduced to pining for him during the Gathering! He hated it. Hated it so much he couldn't even mock her for it, not then.

And he couldn't _believe_ she'd spoken like that to Oberon, the lord and master of them all, called him out in front everyone. She'd gotten herself banished, just like Puck!

Was that what she had wanted? To be with him, to be his _little siren_, at any cost? Did she really love him that much?

Stupid little shrew.

Why him? Why Puck? Why not …

Why not …

"I'm sorry."

He'd whispered it to her, in that brief moment of lucidity, when Mab had still held him in thrall, before Titania's daughter had lifted the spell. Had she believed him, had she'd known how significant those two little words were, how much they meant, how much humbling it took for him to say them?

He'd never apologized for anything in his life, not once. Not until that moment. She was right, he had been cruel like her, callous like her, but he didn't relish seeing her suffer that way.

He'd wanted her to know that. It had been important to him. If he hadn't been so controlled by Mab's magic, if he could have reached out and wiped those tears away … to touch her like that …

Damn her. Damn her, and her Puck, on their stupid little island of Manhattan, still mucking about with the mortals and still idiotically, eternally devoted to each other. Damn their ridiculous love and their equally ridiculous happiness, bittersweet though it was.

He was the one most would have considered fortunate, he knew. After all, despite what happened with Mab, he'd never been stripped of his powers, and he hadn't been banished from Avalon. He still got to sample its paradise, while they were stuck forever in the mortal world.

But they were together.

And he, despite being surrounded by his own people, and all the wonder and magic of his homeland, was profoundly, irrevocably alone.

_And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting  
>—still is sitting<em>

_On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;_

_And his eyes have all the seeming of a  
>Demon's that is dreaming,<em>

_And the lamp-light o'er him streaming  
>throws his shadow on the floor;<em>

_And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor  
>Shall be lifted—nevermore!<em>

From "The Raven," by Edgar Allen Poe


End file.
